


Randolph Carter’s First Crush

by Liliriu



Category: Dream Cycle - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Crushes, Friendship, Gen, M/M, adorable randolph, child randolph, good naturedly cynical richard, quirky randolph, the m/m element is quite minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liliriu/pseuds/Liliriu
Summary: According to the painter’s observations, the vast majority of his “fan-base” consisted of bored housewives and uninteresting young men, who walked hand by hand with their prospective lovers, aiming to impress them by appearing to be art enthusiasts. He was a bit surprised when he first saw the preteen redhead girl standing with her back to him, seemingly quite absorbed in the examination of ones of his paintings. Richard quickly explained to himself that plausibly, the selected crew of his admirers could also include some creative parents and nannies, who had decided to introduce their over-energetic children into the world of art as a mean to entertain them during a long summer vacation.
Relationships: Randolph Carter/Richard Upton Pickman (probably one sided)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Randolph Carter’s First Crush

Their first acquaintance occurred during an art exhibition; a group exhibition that Richard had been oh-so-kindly invited to contribute to, selected for some obscure reason to complement the cluster of mediocre artists, and had agreed because… Well, for some reason he had agreed.

According to the painter’s observations, the vast majority of his “fan-base” consisted of bored housewives and uninteresting young men, who walked hand by hand with their prospective lovers, aiming to impress them by appearing to be art enthusiasts. He was a bit surprised when he first saw the preteen redhead girl standing with her back to him, seemingly quite absorbed in the examination of ones of his paintings. Richard quickly explained to himself that plausibly, the selected crew of his admirers could also include some creative parents and nannies, who had decided to introduce their over-energetic children into the world of art as a mean to entertain them during a long summer vacation.

As the child turned towards him, Richard noticed two things: first, that this was actually a boy; despite being skinny and rather pretty, there was definitely a boyish roughness in his features and movements, and anyway, he was wearing boys’ clothes and his hair was too short for a girl. The second discovery was that both the expression in the child’s sky-blue eyes and his cheerful smile, seemed just too bright for the situation - facing a strange man in a dull art exhibition. And was it Richard’s imagination, or had the little cheeks suddenly flushed?

The boy did not allow Richard the luxury to waste his time on speculations, and proceeded to introduce himself: his name, he said, was Randolph Carter. He was a thirteen years old, self-proclaimed, “artist-dreamer-philosopher.”

“As every other skinny, weird teenage boy since the dawn of civilization,” had told him Richard with a grin.

In reply to that, Randolph had quickly fired: “you seem to know everything about it.”

Anyway, he had begged to his mother to take him there, and was excited to finally meet him, Richard Pickman, face to face, and to see his paintings live, although he was a bit disappointed that there were so few of them at the exhibition. He was aware of the painter’s existence thanks to an article featuring his art, published about a year ago, which Richard had almost forgotten about.

The artist did not have much of an opinion, one way or another, on the topic of children; in fact, he was just not used to treating with them. This one, despite his slightly excessive talkativeness, he found reasonably cute, and certainly the most interesting thing to be found in the gallery at the moment. So he nonchalantly allowed the boy to follow him around, half listening to the information bombardment, interrupting him only once in a while, when people who needed to be sucked up to crossed their path.

The evening finalized in an unexpected yet not completely unpleasant way, with Richard accepting the proposition made by Randolph’s mother, and having dinner with her and her child in a nearby cafe. The woman exhibited an odd combination of thankfulness and discomfort, as if she saw the artist’s willingness to pay attention to the boy as an act of charity. Somehow, before the artist could stop himself, he had found himself inviting both of them to visit him in his studio and home.

***

It was a lucky thing that the woman did not seem interested in staying, and limited herself to bring the child to the place, exchange a few words of courtesy, and agree with Richard on the hour in which she would come to pick Randolph back. That seemed like an odd behavior to the artist - to leave your young, rather fragile boy with an almost-stranger, and in particular with one who it would not be quite inaccurate to define as a “creep”, such as himself. But after all, he thought, she had conceived this unusual child. Maybe she was used to strange types, or even possessed some hidden spark of strangeness within herself.

***

The boy turned into a regular visitor in Richards’s house. After the first time, he started a habit of arriving by himself, and staying for slightly longer periods each time, just slightly longer, as if hoping that this way, their enlargement would go unnoticed by the artist. But the reality was that he did not mind; Randolph’s company was quite enjoyable, especially since, as Richard had discovered during the child’s first visit, he was not a bit alarmed by even the most shocking of the paintings exposed in the studio.

Perhaps, Richard thought (somewhat bitterly), the mistake had been to assume that his target audience should consist of adults. Maybe, he considered, as we find ourselves forced, through the course of our life, to fake such things as “positivity” in order to comply with the ever-rising demands of society, we gradually lose our resistance to the sight of horror, and thus our ability to appreciate the beauty in it. But no, that also had to be untrue; from his own childhood, the painter could recall that his companions, even if not always as shocked as their parents, were almost universally indifferent to art, was it horrific or of every other kind.

Richard was now sure that one of his first impressions regarding the boy, he had got right: a bright flush would definitely cover Randolph’s cheeks each time the painter looked at his direction. He did not hold prejudges against homosexuals; as he considered himself to be a man of reason, and understood that such prejudges would stand in blunt contradiction to the acceptance of his own bizarre inclinations, even if those were not sexual in nature. Anyway, the crush seemed harmless; Richard decided that he found it even rather charming. And the fact that, among all people, it happened to be directed towards him – rather amusing, as he was not precisely the typical devotion object of the young aspiring poet, certainly not much of an Elmira Royster or a Mary Chaworth.

The peak of the “romance” had been for now - and would probably always be - the time in which Randolph had claimed that Richard seemed “too tense lately,” and proceeded to give him an unrequested massage. The painter had then gently removed the boy’s hands, while asking “who do you think will get the blame if you’re seen being touchy with me like that?” and inside his own mind had added: “next time you attempt to seduce someone, it will probably be of some help to clean the dirt under your nails.” He had repressed a little laughter.

***

So the boy would come, and he would talk, would watch Richard painting, and talk, eat Richard’s food, talk, make a mess out of the house, talk, attempt to touch every single fucking object with his perpetually greasy hands, attempt to touch Richard with his perpetually greasy hands, talk, and talk, and talk. Richard would only listen half of the time, but he did not care, since he enjoyed the musicality in the child’s voice.

Once, with boyish bluntness, Randolph had asked Richard if he had any drugs. This time, the artist was incapable of repressing his laughter at the disappointed expression which appeared in the boy’s face when he gave him a negative answer; and had asked if it seemed to Randolph that he was “this kind of artist.”

“I don’t know any other artists,” answered the half-offended child.

“I am not a dreamer, boy,” replied Richard with a shrug.

That had kept Randolph silent for at least five minutes.

***

Randolph’s so-called “philosophy,” the painter soon enough found out, was the usual pretentious, disconnected collection of ideas uttered by every single over-impressionable youth who had just discovered Nietzsche. When asked for his opinion regarding this particular thinker, the boy had grinned and said: “I read him, yes. But he knows nothing; this god he speaks of, is quite alive, but as useless now as he had been in the first place!”

Pretentious, indeed!

But Richard would just smile to himself at the seriousness in which the boy would express his ideas, usually just in order to get distracted moments after: each time he was hungry, or believed to have caught sight of a butterfly through the window, or even better: a cat. The boy had literally claimed, without the slightest trace of cynicism in his voice, to “fluently speak the languages of all living beings,” out of which the cat was “the sovereign; the most sublime and magnificent, as well as the cutest.”

***

Reluctantly, Richard had one time allowed Randolph to use his precious materials in order to try his skills as a painter, yet the boy had failed miserably. Equally failed were his attempts at singing and writing poetry and prose; all of them he would, a bit exhaustingly, expose to the armed-with-patience artist. It was quite clear: the boy possessed no talent; what he did possess, was a great amount of grace and candor. Perhaps one day, for someone, he would be a wonderful… muse. One day, that’s it.

***

Richard had left Randolph alone, once, in order to run an errand, when he suddenly recalled the appointment which he had previously set, in the very same house. He slapped himself and ran as if his life depended on it; he did not want that incident to repeat itself, not with another adult and certainly not with a child.

But he arrived too late, the painter realized as soon as he saw what he saw. And what he saw was: Over the kitchen table, the boy was drinking herbal tea with his model, as they animatedly conversed in what seemed like goddamned sign language!

Richard’s speechlessness lasted only about a second, after which he smiled, shook his head, and muttered: “of-fucking-course.”

Both the child and the ghoul jumped as they heard him, so engaged they were in their conversation, and proceeded to happily greet him in unison.

The ghoul stepped towards a perplexed Richard, and in uncharacteristic cordiality shook his hand, while saying in his own language: “such a charming companion you have here.” Following that (unless it was a product of the artist’s imagination), the creature winked at him. It then drew closer to his ear, and whispered: “I believe that I would not be mistaken to assume this to be your most recent… girlfriend?”

Of-fucking-course.


End file.
